“Yeah, I guess so,” Peter said. He looked sheepishly at Matt. “I don’t mean that I haven’t been happy here with you and Mother. School’s been good, everything, really. I guess I just always think about Laos as being my home. And I miss Grandpère. I really wish he’d come and visit instead of sending Uncle Auguste over every year or two. We write to each other, but it’s not the same.”
“It’s hard for him. It’s a long trip and he’s getting up in years. And he has a lot of complex business interests to take care of, you know. Things over there are pretty wild and woolly. From a business standpoint it’s like a damned frontier. And in business there you have to stay close to the people running the government. When I left, your grandfather owned hotels and restaurants, a pretty good-sized rubber plantation was just getting started, and he did a lot of business in the export market. Everything from currency to ivory.” He looked at Peter, watching him drink in the information. “And I wouldn’t be too upset about his not coming over here. Business there is very cutthroat. If he left for any extended period of time, he might find he had nothing left when he got back.”
“But Uncle Auguste could run things for him,” Peter said.
“Auguste’s good, Peter. But believe me, there’s only one Buonaparte Sartene when it comes to making something work.”
“Then I guess I just won’t see him until I go back,” Peter said.
Matt stopped and looked up at Peter. “Listen, do me a favor. Don’t talk about going back there when your mother’s around,” he said. “It would upset her.”
Peter nodded his head, causing a shock of blond hair to drop onto his forehead. “Yeah, I know. But I don’t understand why she gets so nervous whenever Uncle Benito and I talk about Southeast Asia.”
“It wasn’t a happy place for her, Peter. Not at the end, anyway. Your father’s being killed. Benito’s being shot by that communist guerrilla. She’s afraid of the danger over there. Afraid for you. I’d rather see you stay here myself.”
“But Matt, that plane crash that killed my father could have happened anywhere. You were in the same crash. You were just lucky. And people get shot here too.”
“I know all that, Peter. But we don’t have bandits roaming the outcountry, and there is a bit of a guerrilla war going on there too. And it’s going to get worse before it gets any better. Look, tiger, you’ll make your own decisions about where you want to go and what you want to do. All I ask is that you not upset your mother until it’s necessary, if it ever is necessary.” He watched Peter nod his agreement, knowing he would keep his word. It was the one thing about his Corsican training that Matt liked at the moment.
He finished the final adjustment on the trap machine, then stood. “There, that should do it. Now, remember, you don’t aim a shotgun, you point it. Let your eye follow the target over the barrel. Your body will move with your eye. And keep following it even after you squeeze off the round. All you have to do is step on the plate to activate the machine.”
Matt turned to a sound behind him, and saw Benito rolling toward them in his wheelchair. Behind Benito, Madeleine stood on the rear porch, watching them. Even from a distance he could see the tight look on her face. She had not been well lately. She seemed to draw within herself each day, as Peter came closer to manhood. He turned back to Peter. “Look, you show off for your uncle. I just remembered something I have to tell your mother.”
Benito smiled at Matt as he moved past him, then continued on to Peter, the smile broadening as he rolled to a halt next to the boy.
“So, are you going to show me what you can do with this fine new weapon?” Benito roared.
“I’m going to try,” Peter said.
“You know your adopted great-grandfather was famous with a shotgun,” Benito said.
Peter turned back to him, his eyes bright. “Really? You never told me that.”
“Oh, yes,” Benito said. “Of course it was different from your shotgun. It was called a lupara, and it had a much shorter barrel. It was used in the mountains for protection against wolves. But your great-grandfather was a Corsican freedom fighter, and he used it against a different kind of wolf. French wolves. It is said that when he died, they put him in his coffin with his lupara in his arms. Someday you must get your grandfather to tell you about the man you are named for, Papa Guerini.”
When he reached the porch, Matt stroked Madeleine’s cheek. “You look troubled,” he said.
“It’s just seeing Pierre with a gun,” she said.
“It’s only a sport, Madeleine. It’s good for him to learn it,” Matt said.
Madeleine nodded, then attempted to smile. “I know,” she said. “You will teach him a sport. But I’m not sure what Benito will teach him.”
He watched her turn and move back into the house, then looked back to the field. Two clay targets exploded from the ground, and he watched Peter’s body move with them. The shotgun erupted in rapid bursts and the two clay targets exploded into dust. Damn, he thought. The kid has the reflexes of a cat.
September 5, 1957
Dear Pierre,
Now, as you are about to begin your final year of secondary school, I know you must be looking forward to all the decisions that are before you. You must treat these decisions with the importance they deserve, for your future life will be greatly affected by them. Because of this, it is my wish that you study history with great care. While a man can never change the way things are in the world, a knowledge of how they came to be so gives him the ability to understand and deal with the problems he must face.
As I have told you in other letters, it is also my wish that after your years at university, you receive military training. I understand your belief that much of what you have seen of the military in school is foolishness. It has always been so, and always will be. But there are things to be learned that will be of benefit to you. This does not mean that you should become the servant of the people who can teach you these things. Years ago, when you were still a boy, I told you of my wish that you have this training one day. I also told you that you must never allow these people to become your masters, but that you only take what they could give you. I tell you now, as I did then, that a Corsican is no man’s servant. He serves only his own family, and those who give him their loyalty. But he is also wise enough to accept the knowledge others can give him. This is what I ask you to do. This training will teach you to survive in this world. It will prepare you for times in the future when others may not want you to survive.
Next month your Uncle Auguste will visit you, and I will be sending some books with him that will help you in your studies. I understand your wish that I also come and visit with you. Right now that is not possible, but know that I wish it as much as you. Each time Auguste returns and tells me what a fine young man you are becoming, I wish for it even more. But one day soon we shall be together here in Laos. And I know when the day comes I will meet the fine man that we who love you have always wanted you to become.
With much love and affection.
Your Grandfather
March 8, 1958
Dear Luc,
I was accepted to Columbia University today, so now I have a choice to make. Right now I’m reasonably sure it will be Stanford. I’ve decided to. major in history, with an emphasis on Far Eastern Studies, and the program there seems slightly better. But perhaps it’s just that it’s one step closer to Laos. I’m not really sure, Brother Two. I know I still miss it, along with you and Grandpère and everyone else. It’s not that I don’t like it here. This is an amazing country, a place where people have so many opportunities it’s staggering to think about them. And they really don’t seem to understand how good it is.
I’ve watched the farmers here, and thought about the people back in Laos, the way they struggle to raise enough food. Here the farms seem to go on forever, and the men in the fields have machines to do just about everything. Sometimes I hear them complaining about government price supports and operating costs, and I have to
laugh to myself, and wonder how they’d like to spend the day walking behind a water buffalo.
You should come here and see it for yourself. I asked Uncle Auguste about that when he was here last month, but he said you’re busy working with him. He’s very proud of you, but I’m sure he never says so. Write and tell me about it. He’s still talking about the time we put the lizard in his room, and laughing about how he and Grandpère scared the devil out of us. When I come back, we’ll do it again, just to teach him a lesson. Right now I don’t know when that will be. I’ve talked to Matt about visiting Laos in the summer, but he still feels it would be too upsetting to Mother. She seems to get upset if I even talk about Grandpère and you, or Vientiane. Talk to Grandpère about both of you coming here. If I’m at school in California it won’t be quite as long a trip. Do what you can to persuade him, Brother Two, and I’ll work on it from this end. I’ll write again soon.
Your brother,
Pierre
SOUTH DAKOTA, DECEMBER 1960
He had not learned of Benito’s illness until he returned home for the Christmas holidays. The old man had refused to allow Matt to write him, insisting that he would live until Christmas, if necessary, so Pierre’s studies would not be interrupted.
When he saw Benito, he was staggered by the physical change that had taken place in only a few months. The stroke had extended Benito’s paralysis to the upper left portion of his body, and the left side of his face was slack and misshapen. For the past month he had been fed through tubes, and the robust barrel of a man Peter had known most of his life was now emaciated.
When he entered the darkened bedroom, Benito’s right eye gleamed out at him, and the right side of his mouth curved up in a grotesque half-smile.
“So, you came home.” Benito’s voice was little more than a harsh whisper, but his manner of delivery was still forceful. He gestured weakly with his right hand. “Come over here and kiss your uncle.”
Peter kissed Benito’s forehead and began to speak, but found he did not know what to say.
“How do you feel?” he asked, immediately recognizing the absurdity of the question.
“I feel like I look,” Benito said. “Like a dying piece of old shit.”
Tears formed in Peter’s eyes, and he fought them off, knowing it would displease his uncle. “You should be in a hospital,” he said.
Benito snorted. “You sound like your stepfather. I tell you what I told him. That a man should not die surrounded by sick people. It’s too depressing.”
Peter laughed softly, then reached out and took his uncle’s right hand and pressed it between both of his. For the past eight years the man had refused to allow a wheelchair to dictate life to him. Now he insisted on setting the terms of his own death.
“What does the doctor say?”
Benito snorted again. “The donkey told me I’d be dead a month ago. I told him I would die when I was ready. After I spoke to my nephew.”
“I’m here now, Uncle. And I’ll stay with you until you’re well again.” Peter squeezed his hand, hoping it would give his uncle some sense of reassurance.
“I always thought that I would go back to Laos with you one day. But God always has one last joke for everyone.”
“Has anyone written to Grandpère and Uncle Auguste?”
“I don’t want them to know until after I’m dead. It would do no good, and if they knew they would come, and that would not be a good thing.” Benito stopped, taking in several deep breaths as though gathering the strength to continue.
“I should let you rest,” Peter said.
“No. I’ll get all the rest I need soon enough. Now I must tell you something. And I must ask you to promise me two things.” He breathed deeply again, staring up with his one good eye as Peter nodded his agreement.
“First, Pierre, you must do as your grandfather has asked. You must complete your studies, and then get training in the military. Then you must go back to him.”
“It’s what I’ve always planned,” Peter said.
“There is also something you haven’t planned, Pierre. I always thought I would be with you when you learned of it. I thought I would be there to help you.” He stopped again, gathering strength. “When you return to Laos you will learn many things about our family. You will also learn about a man there. And after you learn about him, you will have to kill him. You will have to do this because when this man learns you have returned, he will try to kill you.”
Peter stared blankly at his uncle. The words had come at him like blows, and his first thought was that his uncle had become delirious. “What do you mean? Who are you talking about?”
Benito’s right eye fluttered. “I cannot tell you, Pierre. You were to learn none of this until you returned. I have never failed to do anything your grandfather asked of me. But I thought I would be here to help you prepare for the time when you returned to him. Now you must know so you can prepare yourself. If you knew his name, you might go before you were ready. And you will not be ready until you have learned how to kill. If you do not learn this, you must never go back.”
Peter shook his head. “I don’t understand. I was twelve when I left Laos. Why would there be a man who wants to kill me?”
“Because he knows he will never be safe while there is still a Sartene alive on this earth.”
“But why?”
Benito drew a deep breath, then squeezed his eyes shut. “Because, Pierre, he is the man who murdered your father.”
The long, hard isolation of winter had finally engulfed them; the snow was already a foot deep, covering any hint of life. Matt and Peter walked slowly across the encrusted field; the harsh wind that moved through the open land cut into their faces.
“I have a right to know more than I’ve been told,” Peter said. He kept his eyes fixed on the blank, snow-white horizon, as if searching for something to break the emptiness that stretched out before him.
“Yes, you do,” Matt said. He stopped and turned toward Peter. “I’ll tell you what I can,” he said. “But I can’t answer all your questions.”
“Because you’ve promised not to?”
Matt shook his head. “I’ve given no promises. But there are many things about your grandfather, about your family, that I was never told. And there are things I do know that involve work I did for my government that I simply can’t tell you.”
“Does my mother know?” Peter stared into Matt’s eyes. His question had carried a mild threat, and he regretted it at once.
“She knows more than I’m willing to tell you,” Matt said. “If you ask her, perhaps she’ll tell you.” He placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder, then let it fall away. “You know she hasn’t been well. She never really has been since we came here. Talking about those days won’t be good for her. I don’t have the right to ask you not to, but I hope you won’t.”
Peter looked away, taking the full force of the wind in his face. “Tell me what you can,” he said.
Matt drew a deep breath and took Peter by the arm. They began walking again. “Throughout the world there is a very loosely knit organization of Corsicans known as the milieu. Within that overall organization there are many groups, each headed by a man who is called un vrai monsieur. For the most part the business activities of the various groups are legal. In some instances they’re not. But then, you know the Corsican attitude about laws made by others.” He stopped and looked at Peter. “Your grandfather heads such a group.”
As they walked on, Matt told Peter about Sartene’s various business interests, those legitimate and those not. The only activity he did not speak about was opium.
They stopped, their path blocked by an uprooted tree; they turned their backs to the wind.
“And my father was killed because someone in the group wanted to control these business interests?” Peter asked.
Matt stared at the ground, wishing the question had not been asked. He cared too much for his adopted son to lie to him. “He wanted to control a particul
ar aspect of those business interests, one your grandfather undertook at the request of my government.”
“And you won’t tell me what that business was.”
Matt shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Will you tell me who the man was?”
Matt shook his head again. “That’s the one thing I could tell you, but won’t.”
Peter’s jaw tightened. “Why not?”
“Because Benito was right. If you knew you might go back before you were ready.”
“I could write my grandfather. Telephone him.” Peter’s voice was harsh, angry.
“That might put him in jeopardy. His moves are watched by various agencies. That’s why he’s never been able to visit you here.”
“And you won’t tell me.”
Matt shook his head. “No. But I’ll give you some advice.”
“What?” Peter snapped.
“Don’t go back.”
December 30, I960
Dear Uncle Auguste,
We buried Uncle Benito today. It was a simple ceremony, just as he would have wanted.
I know our telegram informing you of his death was a shock. But this too was what he wanted. He knew that you and Grandpère would come if you knew he was so ill. And this, he felt, would not be a good thing.
I cannot tell you how much I share your loss. It was only at the end that I realized how much his life was involved with my own, how much he had devoted himself to my future. Before he died, he told me how he had planned to return to Laos with me, to help me and guide me there, as he had done for so much of my life.
Now I will do the last thing he asked of me. I will finish my studies and my military training, so I will be ready for what awaits me when I return to Laos.
Your nephew,
Pierre
Palo Alto had agreed with him, and when Auguste first saw him, he found it hard to believe how much Pierre had changed in the years since his last visit. He was broader, stronger, and there was an air of quiet confidence about the way he moved. Yet there was something else as well, something he could not identify. Somehow, he did not seem like the same young man.
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